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Wielder of the Dream
Wielder of the Dream is the first encounter in the Crystal Kismet mission hub. Enemies *Oroc Warrior (975 Gold, 120 Xp, 75 Energy, 5 HP) *Oroc Warrior (1040 Gold, 128 Xp, 80 Energy, 5 HP) Transcript Introduction Through the subterranean gloom you march, along the vast tunnel that ploughs through the bones of Tor'gyyl like the wound of a titanic lance. Its width and the loftiness of its ceiling allay any feelings of claustrophobia which may have plagued you at the thought of the expanse of stone between you and the open sky far above your heads. Instead you feel a niggling sense of agoraphobia at the immense gulf of blackness which shifts and seethes around the pool of brightness created by your spells -- challenged only by the multicolored shine of the crystals and lichen. This passage is large enough to have admitted an army, or a monster... The very purposes for which you know it was fashioned. You're striding through history, and that thought hammers in your core at every step. Far behind and above, beneath the cloud-muffled starlight of the night sky, your horses stand vigil over an abandoned campsite. If something causes you to relinquish this stratagem, and you're forced to flee back to the surface, you hope that they'll still be there waiting for you. But the tethers you left on them are loose, easily broken or gnawed through if a longer absence forces the animals to seek food and water elsewhere. Though you doubt it will come to that. Good horseflesh is prized in Caelnarn, and the beasts are likely enough to become the property of whichever nomadic steppe tribe first comes upon them. Whatever might happen down here, you sense that the die is cast -- as surely as if you were invaders who've burned their ships behind them, wagering glory and existence upon the success of a bold endeavor. But if you feel any perturbation at such thoughts, they don't appear to be shared by your companions. You catch some of them gazing at you with awestruck eyes, impressed beyond measure by the quirk of fortune which has brought you here -- behaving as if it were somehow your doing, wrought by the force of your presence and the potency of your famed blood. If it continues much longer, it's going to prove embarrassing... In light of this state of affairs, it's only natural that the others look to you for guidance when an opening appears in the side of the passage -- offering a different path in this underground realm. And to your exasperation, even as you open your mouth to declare that you don't know which route you should follow, something tugs at you. Forces beyond your comprehension, or else a %madman's% delusions, urge you onward along the larger tunnel. It just feels... right. An indeterminable length of time elapses. Down here day and night mean nothing, and it could be the moon or sun which shines down far overhead -- hidden from your sight and knowledge, as you are from theirs. Nor does the tunnel offer any sign to mark your progress. Similar carvings continue to appear upon the walls, as do the formations of lichen and crystal. Only the growing weariness in your thews testifies that you've gone far from the seemingly identical stretches you passed through at the onset of your subterranean odyssey. But your relentless determination is rewarded at long last. It's the sound which reaches you first -- the ring of clashing weapons, the cacophony of inarticulate cries and grunts that punctuate words in a deep, unintelligible language. With the casual precision of men and women accustomed to fighting together, you all draw your weapons and fan out as you quicken your pace. If your adventures have taught you anything, it's that combat loves company. It's a foolish %man% who approaches the noise of battle without understanding that %he% might become embroiled in the turmoil %he% approaches. You round a gentle curve in the passage, and sight accompanies sound. Ahead of you the tunnel you've followed for so long gives way at last, widening into a cavern. But it doesn't seem content to surrender to that fate quietly, judging by the spectacle which occupies its mouth. An overwhelming assault of color fills your vision, resolving itself into a number of strangely hued humanoid bodies, each encased in powerful muscle and adorned with bright crystals like those you found embedded in the passage's walls. Orocs... The chaos resolves itself in turn, as your mind makes sense of the unaccustomed sight of clashing, thrashing crystalline forms. A towering oroc woman, a veritable titaness even by the standards of her prodigious race, dodges, darts, and shuffles in the midst of a dozen hulking warriors -- her deep orange flesh and brighter orange crystals like dancing flashes of flame amidst the blues, blacks, greens, reds, and purples of her adversaries. With each rapid martial movement she lifts a crystal shield -- identical to her body's protrusions in shade and hue -- to block a blow from one of their weapons, whilst at the same time working to place herself at the edge of the melee where her foes can't attack from all angles. Her enemies are moving in turn, however, caught up in the same warlike dance, attempting to keep her surrounded. Two bodies lie on the ground near the warring orocs, and as you look on another joins them. One of the woman's enemies stumbles with the momentum of an evaded attack and falls victim to a deft thrust from the sword she clutches in her right hand. Your eyes dwell on that armament, unexpectedly entranced by the least outlandish element of the scene. It's steel, not crystal like her shield or the weapons the others are wielding. And it's familiar... In that moment the orange oroc wheels round to parry another attack, a maneuver which leaves her facing you. Her eyes meet yours, and bear surprise for the barest fraction of a second before her face lights up. She laughs, joy tumbling from her lips. Her merriment is enough to make her enemies turn towards you, abandoning the fight in their curiosity to see what might have aroused such improper emotion in their intended victim. The other orocs seem rather less delighted to discover your existence. One of them cries out in their harsh, grinding language. A moment later he and several of the others are charging towards you. "At least we know whose side to take," Tessa says, as she draws back an arrow. Conclusion In your younger days, during the arduous training which fell to your lot after you impressed the grandmasters, you once stabbed a wall. The wall in question hadn't been the intended target of your thrust. It had done you no wrong, and even if it had somehow earned your wrath you would likely have found some more sensible means of bringing about its destruction. Rather it simply had the misfortune to be behind your sparring partner, and when she dodged your blow the wall -- quite understandably -- proved less able to emulate her. Thus steel met stone. And to the family blacksmith's credit, the heavy training weapon withstood the impact without breaking. The consequence of this laudable smithing was that the force of the blow traveled up your arm, jarring your bones in a very unpleasant fashion. That memory flashes across your thoughts when your sword meets the oroc's chest, penetrating his black muscles only to wedge against his ribs and send a shudder through your bones in turn. You yank at the weapon, trying to pull it free for a second strike. But it's stuck fast. A stupid mistake... Orocs... Crystalline skeletons... Should have remembered... Your enemy grins, displaying glittering teeth, as he raises his axe to split your skull. It's fortunate that you have other recourses than physical might... The spell leaves your brain before the crystal weapon can enter it. The words pass through your lips and the effect through your blade, causing the latter to pulse with a burst of cyan light. The oroc's grin becomes a groan. His axe falls, thwarted and impotent. Your sword comes free. This time you pick your strike more carefully, angling the blade to slip between his ribs. There's a crunch as the sword's tip meets your enemy's crystal-encrusted heart. Life leaves his eyes and strength departs from his limbs. He hits the rock with a weighty thunk. Thus saved from potential doom and no longer engaged in combat, you take stock of the situation. It appears that your companions have likewise proved equal to the new challenge. Three orocs lie with Tessa's colorful fletches protruding from them. Conventional wisdom dictates that an arrow is an ineffective weapon against members of their species, which is why they favor boulders as their projectiles of choice. But her shafts have found homicidal homes in their eyes and throats all the same. A brawny corpse sprawls in front of Hugh. Its head is several feet away from its neck, severed by some conjunction of his cleaver and Brachus' sorcery. Similar scenes gladden your heart elsewhere, though it seems that the lion's share of the honors have gone to the tall oroc woman. She who killed first kills last, and the final enemy to die at her hands comes to rest atop a heap of others whose blood also paints her steel blade. The grievous wounds they bear are ample testament to her strength, a reminder that though females of her species lack the broad-shouldered bulk of their male counterparts, their dense limbs are powerful enough. Once again her eyes meet yours, and as before they shine with elation. She walks towards you, picking her way over the corpses with graceful movements of her long legs, and you wait to receive the words of gratitude which the situation merits and her demeanor heralds. You're caught by surprise when she throws her arms around you instead. Her might and the weight of the shield which nudges your back are irresistible, throwing you forward. Since she stands half a foot taller than you, the resulting collision is both painful and indecorous. Your nose slams into the layer of hard crystal on her breast, and -- at least if sensation provides reliable evidence -- is knocked through the back of your head. Fortunately that transpires not to be the case. When she releases you, your nose merely appears to be somewhat tender rather than relocated. "I knew you'd come," she says. Her speech is fluent, though it bears an unusual edge -- as if each word were a soft gemstone. "Oh..." is the best you can manage through the dual veils of agony and confusion. "You carry the crest of the draken-kasan." She indicates your shield with a nod of her head. "You're of %his% line?" "%He% is," Tessa says, giving you a moment's respite in which to murmur a healing cantrip. "My name is Rakshara. Your ancestor knew mine." Of course. An orange oroc, that sword... It was too big a coincidence. Another strand of fate to aid or ensnare you. The tension in the air is palpable. Your companions have gathered round, and once more they watch and listen with bated breath -- awestruck by the machinations of destiny, ensorcelled by the echoing past. All you can do is follow along, and allow events to sweep you inexorably onwards... "We kept our promise," she says after a moment. Then, when you still remain silent, she continues. "You know what I speak of? About this place?" "I know that my ancestor came through this passage during the war. It was one of the dragons' tunnels, the routes they used to move their armies." "Yes. But when the draken-kasan came, the tunnel behind you was blocked -- its mouth choked by rock. It was another path which led %him% to our home, before he journeyed on to that of the drakeni and their minions. While %he% was among my people, %his% draken bid them clear the tunnel -- told them that it would one day be needed. Far-sight has long been respected among the orocs, and my people were indebted to your ancestor. So it was done." Her gaze roams across your faces. She seems pleased by your attention, by your obvious desire to hear her out. And it occurs to you that she may have practiced this moment before, been waiting for the day when she could play her part in the cosmic drama. Just like you... "When I was a girl, my people began to station watchers here -- believing that the time would soon approach. We wanted to make sure our duty was done, that the things the draken saw would come to pass as he wished. But then our enemies seized these tunnels." Your eyes rest on the pile of dead orocs behind her. She smiles. "Yes... These warriors were loyal to the Sapphire King, who now claims this territory as his own. My clan accepted this. We were weak." She spits the last word as though it were a blasphemy. "I urged them to take back what was ours, but they wouldn't listen." "So you tried to do it on your own?" you ask. "Last... night..." she begins, as though groping for the right word, "I had a dream. I saw you. And I knew that I had to be here waiting for you." An impressed murmur ripples through your companions. After what they've seen on your adventures, they're ready to believe such things. Omens, portents, fate, destiny, prophecy... For better or worse, they see them coalescing around you. "But I don't know why you've come," Rakshara says. "That wasn't shown to me. What do you seek here?" "We want to go north," you reply. "To Nordent. I know that one of the paths from the dragons' lair leads there. It was used in the Drake War." "I know the way to the lair. I will guide you there." You glance at Tessa. She makes an almost imperceptible shrug in which you read an echo of your own thoughts. This seems as good a course of action as any, under the circumstances. And if destiny is so eager to guide your footsteps... You point past the oroc. Behind her, on the other side of a small cavern, you see the opening of a passage which seems a continuation of the one whose mouth you're standing in. "So we keep going that way?" you ask. Rakshara grimaces. "It would be the quickest route. But not even the Sapphire King's clan dare use that tunnel. It houses a powerful enemy, one we would be wise to avoid if we wish to survive." "I like surviving," Hugh remarks. "As do I," Brachus agrees. "Though I must say that my curiosity is aroused..." The oroc glances at him, but seems nonplussed. Perhaps her life is filled with stranger things than a man with two voices. "What about those other openings?" Tessa asks, indicating the other tunnels which open from the cavern. "That one is the domain of a vicious goblin tribe." Rakshara points to the furthest on the left-hand side. "Allies of the Sapphire King. It's sacred to them, and his orocs never set foot there. Though if we follow these other passages we will surely encounter them." She encompasses the remaining tunnels with a sweep of her arm. "Any of these paths will take us towards your goal," she says. "The choice is yours. I'll trust to whatever fate guides you." Category:Crystal Kismet